On the Death of Mr. Crashaw.

Oet and Saint! to thee alone are given

and Heaven.

The hard and rarest Union which can be i
Next that of Godhead with Humanitie.
Long did the Muses banisht Slaves abide,

And built vain Pyramids to mortal pride;

Like Moses Thou (though Spells and Charms withstand)
Hast brought them nobly home back to their Holy Land.
Ah wretched We, Poets of Earth! but Thou

Wert Living the same Poet which thou'rt Now.
Whilst Angels sing to thee their ayres divine,
And joy in an applause so great as thine.
Equal society with them to hold,

Thou need'st not make new Songs, but say the Old.
And they (kind Spirits!) shall all rejoyce to see
How little less then They, Exalted Man may be.
Still the old Heathen Gods in Numbers dwell,
The Heav'enliest thing on Earth still keeps up Hell.
Nor have we yet quite purg'd the Christian Land ;
Still Idols here, like Calves at Bethel stand.

And though Pans Death long since all Oracles broke,
Yet still in Rhyme the Fiend Apollo spoke:
(Nay with the worst of Heathen dotage We
(Vain men!) the Monster Woman Deifie;
Find Stars, and tye our Fates there in a Face,
And Paradise in them by whom we lost it, place.
What different faults corrupt our Muses thus?
Wanton as Girles, as old Wives, Fabulous!

Thy spotless Muse, like Mary, did contain
The boundless Godhead; she did well disdain
That her eternal Verse employ'd should be
On a less subject then Eternitie;

And for a sacred Mistress scorn'd to take,

But her whom God himself scorn'd not his Spouse to make.

It (in a kind) her Miracle did do;

A fruitful Mother was, and Virgin too.

*How well (blest Swan) did Fate contrive thy death;
And made thee render up thy tuneful breath
In thy great Mistress Arms? thou most divine
And richest Offering of Loretto's Shrine!
Where like some holy Sacrifice t'expire,

A Fever burns thee, and Love lights the Fire.
Angels (they say) brought the fam'ed Chappel there,
And bore the sacred Load in Triumph through the air.
'Tis surer much they brought thee there, and They,
And Thou, their charge, went singing all the way.
Pardon, my Mother Church, if I consent
That Angels led him when from thee he went,
For even in Error sure no Danger is
When joyn'd with so much Piety as His.
Ah, mighty God, with shame I speak't, and grief,
Ah that our greatest Faults were in Belief!
And our weak Reason were ev'en weaker yet,
Rather then thus our Wills too strong for it.
His Faith perhaps in some nice Tenents might
Be wrong; his Life, I'm sure, was in the right.
And I my self a Catholick will be,

So far at least, great Saint, to Pray to thee.

Hail, Bard Triumphant! and some care bestow
On us, the Poets Militant Below!

Oppos❜ed by our old En'emy, adverse Chance,
Attacqu'ed by Envy, and by Ignorance,

Enchain'd by Beauty, tortur'd by Desires,

Expos'd by Tyrant-Love to savage Beasts and Fires.
Thou from low earth in nobler Flames didst rise,
And like Elijah, mount Alive the skies.
Elisha-like (but with a wish much less,
More fit thy Greatness, and my Littleness)
Lo here I beg (I whom thou once didst prove
So humble to Esteem, so Good to Love)
Not that thy Spirit might on me Doubled be,
I ask but Half thy mighty Spirit for Me.

And when my Muse soars with so strong a Wing,

'Twill learn of things Divine, and first of Thee to sing.

* M. Crashaw died of a Fever at Loretto, being newly chosen Canon of that Church.

Anacreontiques :

OR,

Some Copies of Verses Translated Paraphrastically out of

Anacreon.

I

I.

Love.

'll sing of Heroes, and of Kings;
In mighty Numbers, mighty things,
Begin, my Muse; but lo, the strings
To my great Song rebellious prove;
The strings will sound of nought but Love.
I broke them all, and put on new;
'Tis this or nothing sure will do.
These sure (said I) will me obey;
These sure Heroick Notes will play.
Straight I began with thundring Jove,
And all th'immortal Pow'ers, but Love.
Love smil'd, and from my'enfeebled Lyre
Came gentle airs, such as inspire
Melting love, soft desire.

Farewel then Heroes, farewel Kings,
And mighty Numbers, mighty Things;
Love tunes my Heart just to my strings.

II.

Drinking.

'He thirsty Earth soaks up the Rain,

TH

Tand drinks, and gapes for drink again.

The Plants suck in the Earth, and are
With constant drinking fresh and fair.
The Sea it self, which one would think
Should have but little need of Drink,
Drinks ten thousand Rivers up,
So fill'd that they or'eflow the Cup.
The busie Sun (and one would guess
By's drunken fiery face no less)

Drinks up the Sea, and when h'as done,
The Moon and Stars drink up the Sun.
They drink and dance by their own light,
They drink and revel all the night.
Nothing in Nature's Sober found,
But an eternal Health goes round.
Fill up the Bowl then, fill it high,
Fill all the Glasses there, for why
Should every creature drink but I,
Why, Man of Morals, tell me why?

III.

Beauty.

L

Iberal Nature did dispence

To all things Arms for their defence; And some she arms with sin'ewy force, And some with swiftness in the course; Some with hard Hoofs, or forked claws, And some with Horns, or tusked jaws.

And some with Scales, and some with Wings,
And some with Teeth, and some with Stings.
Wisdom to Man she did afford,

Wisdom for Shield, and Wit for Sword.
What to beauteous Woman-kind,

What Arms, what Armour has she'assigne'd?
Beauty is both; for with the Fair
What Arms, what Armour can compare?
What Steel, what Gold, or Diamond,
More Impassible is found?

And yet what Flame, what Lightning e're
So great an Active force did bear?
They are all weapon, and they dart
Like Porcupines from every part.
Who can, alas, their strength express,
Arm'd, when they themselves undress,
Cap-a-pe with Nakedness?

Y

IV.

The Duel.

Es, I will love then, I will love,
I will not now Loves Rebel prove,
Though I was once his Enemy;
Though ill-advis'd and stubborn I,
Did to the Combate him defy,
An Helmet, Spear, and mighty shield,
Like some new Ajax I did wield.
Love in one hand his Bow did take,
In th'other hand a Dart did shake.
But yet in vain the Dart did throw,
In vain he often drew the Bow.
So well my Armour did resist,
So oft by flight the blow I mist.
But when I thought all danger past,
His Quiver empty'd quite at last,